United States – Page 8

Remembering the Diplomats on Memorial Day

Every year on Memorial Day, American flags are flown to honor members of the U.S. Armed Forces who died or were wounded in the line of duty. Their service is noble, and I appreciate that our country publicly acknowledges their sacrifices.

Scant attention, however, is paid to the civilians who serve courageously in the line of fire. Diplomats and other civilians who work for the U.S. government are often placed in dangerous and unstable locales around the world. They have participated in every war and conflict since the Revolutionary War alongside their military colleagues. In some cases, the civilians stayed behind after the troops withdrew, as happened last year in Iraq. They were also stationed in places without the benefit of U.S. military support when unrest occurred, as happened in Libya, Syria, and in other countries that experienced upheaval during the Arab Spring.

Hundreds of American diplomats have died in the line of duty. Their deaths were caused by natural disasters, diseases, killings, assassinations, and trying to save others’ lives. Two memorial plaques in the entrance hall of the State Department list the names of the 231 diplomats who have died in the line of duty since William Palfrey was lost at sea in 1780. More recently, Brian Adkins was killed in his home in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in 2007, and David Foy was killed in 2006 by a car bomb in Karachi, Pakistan. This figure does not include the 52 Americans held hostage for 444 days during the 1979-80 Iran Hostage Crisis when students and militants overran the then-U.S. Embassy in Tehran. The International News offers a sobering analysis of the history of violence against American diplomats, reporting that 111 have been killed or assassinated since 1780. According to the State Department, more ambassadors than U.S. generals or admirals have been killed since World War II. The U.S. Diplomacy Project tells the tales of diplomats who were put in harm’s way while serving overseas.

While 231 may not sound like a large number, consider that at any given time there are only about 11,000 American diplomats versus the more than 2.5 million members of the U.S. Armed Forces. A rough comparison of casualties during the Iraq War in 2008 revealed that personnel working for the State Department in Iraq during 2003-08 had a casualty rate of about 50% that of their military counterparts. As the events of September 11, 2001, showed, you don’t have be involved in active combat to be a casualty of war and terrorism.

Civilians who serve our country overseas work for the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) and other U.S. Government agencies or as contractors. Many support the U.S. military and diplomatic corps in hostile and dangerous conditions. They are unsung heroes who are rarely featured on the evening news or in movies. They labor in obscurity to protect the freedoms that Americans enjoy.

The Uniform Monday Holiday Act (Public Law 90-363) set aside Memorial Day as a federal holiday to be celebrated each year on the last day of May. The law, however, does not specify who or what it commemorates. That’s up to you to decide. In the minds of many Americans, Memorial Day is a day to honor the U.S. Armed Forces, but this was not always so. The holiday known in the late 1800’s as Decoration Day recognized the veterans of the Union Army who fought in the American Civil War. After World War I, the generally accepted meaning of the day was to honor all Americans, military or civilian, who died in any war. This changed following World War II. It’s time to return to the days when we acknowledged the efforts of all who serve their country bravely in and out of uniform.

This Memorial Day, amid the barbeques, car races, fireworks, and gatherings, remember the diplomats and other civilians who faithfully serve their country in harm’s way.

Happy Memorial Day. God bless America, and God bless those who serve our country.

Click here to read my 2007 post on Memorial Day.

The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the U.S. Department of State. The photos belong to the author.

Eurasia: Adventures in Frankfurt (Part Two)

This is the fourth installment of a story chronicling my travels in 1994 as a college student. The six-month journey took me to 20 countries in Europe and Asia.

Thomas and Francisco, two acquaintances I met after I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, waited for me to respond to their offer to help carry my bags to the lockers in the main train station. I was unsure of their intentions and wondered how I could bid adieu without creating a scene. I suspected that they had ulterior motives, perhaps to relieve me of my wallet or other belongings, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that they genuinely wanted to help. What a mess I’d gotten myself into just hours after arriving in Europe! I hoped my brief stay in Frankfurt would not devolve further into a comedy or tragedy.

“Really, guys, I can take it from here,” I told them. “I really appreciate your help. If there’s anything I can ever do to thank you…”

Francisco held up his hand without a hint of malice and stopped me in mid-sentence. “Say no more, my friend. We’re happy to help.”

Thomas nodded, smiling. It dawned on me that the two were merely being helpful. I pursed my lips and chastised myself for being too mistrustful. Francisco held out his hand and shook mine. He said, “We wish you all the best with your travels, Michael. Take care of yourself. See you later.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, feeling a bit sheepish. “‘Bye…I mean, auf Wiedersehen.”

“Bye, Michael,” Francisco and Thomas said. They waved and disappeared from my life. I realized then that meeting strangers was one of the more fulfilling aspects of traveling abroad and that it was best not to assume the worst in a person at first meeting. Had it not been for their assistance, I might never have been able to square away my belongings. Instead, I might have spent time in a police station reporting some lost or stolen items. Francisco and Thomas were the greeters in Frankfurt that I expected all along.

I gathered my two suitcases, duffel bag, and shoulder bag and shoved the pile toward the locker room at the opposite end of the terminal. I moved them in stages, thinking each time I went back for an orphaned bag that I had a long trip ahead of me to Graz, Austria. I rented the largest locker available and stuffed the three large pieces into it and kept my shoulder bag to use as my daypack. I still carried my travel documents and wallet in my fanny pack, an accessory that I did not realize at the time was a great target for thieves who would rather have stolen small valuables than unwieldy suitcases.

Unfettered, I was all set to spend the rest of the day touring Frankfurt, but I wasn’t in the mood to see it. My ordeal from the airport to the train station soured my disposition. I still had more than three hours before my scheduled departure and did not want to linger at the station, so I headed to the city center for my first taste of Europe. I was not impressed. Despite being a major European city and the financial hub of one of the world’s largest economies, Frankfurt was a forgettable urban metropolis with a dearth of landmarks. Allied bombing during World War II destroyed the city, and most rebuilt modern architecture was rather bland. Die Römer, Frankfurt’s city hall, and the Opernhaus (opera house), were beautiful but nondescript gems hidden amid the high rises. Apart from street signs and billboards written in German, I saw few signs of Germanic influence.

I missed home, my family and my girlfriend. I had no way to contact them with nary a phone card or a cell phone, which would not become an indispensable, disposable travel item for another decade. I told my family that I would contact them in a few days after I arrived in Graz and had no idea what I would have done if I got into trouble. With no travel insurance and on a limited budget, I needed to travel with care.

I sought comfort in the refuge of an American fast-food chain and ordered a hamburger, a dish that ironically originated in Germany but was as far from German cuisine as I could imagine. The burger tasted no better than it had in the United States, and while I thought it was a cheaper option than eating at a local restaurant, the meal cost more than I had budgeted. Leaving the restaurant, I went outside into the cold February afternoon and inadvertently stepped into some wet dog excrement waiting for me on Römerstraße (Römer Street). I rolled my eyes and growled with clenched teeth, “Crap, can anything else go wrong today?”

Scraping the feces from the bottom of my shoe with some tissue, I regretted my words for fear of jinxing myself. The day was far from over; there was still plenty of time for more things to go wrong. Jetlagged, frustrated, and dissatisfied by the bad meal that started to turn in my stomach, I opted to head back to the train station to wait for my departure. The last thing I wanted to do was miss my connection and find myself stranded in Frankfurt. So much misfortune had befallen me in Frankfurt that I was sure that fate would intervene again. As I sat in a subway car hurling back to the train station, staring out the window at the fuzzy emergency lights passing by me in the dark tunnel, I moped and hoped that the situation would get better.

Previous installments of “Eurasia: A Poor Student’s Trek through Europe and Asia“:

1. Leaving America

2. Vancouver to Frankfurt

3. Adventures in Frankfurt (Part One)

M.G. Edwards is a writer of books and stories in the mystery, thriller and science fiction-fantasy genres. He also writes travel adventures. He recently published a collection of short stories called Real Dreams: Thirty Years of Short Stories available as an ebook and in print on Amazon.com. His upcoming travel novel, Kilimanjaro: One Man’s Quest to Go Over the Hill, will be available in March 2012. He lives in Bangkok, Thailand with his wife Jing and son Alex. Visit his web site at www.mgedwards.com or contact him at me@mgedwards.com. Find him on Facebook or @m_g_edwards on Twitter.

Eurasia: Vancouver to Frankfurt

This is the second installment of a story chronicling my travels in 1994 as a college student. The six-month journey took me to 20 countries in Europe and Asia.

In February 1994 I waited at the international airport in Vancouver, Canada to board a plane bound for Frankfurt, Germany. Vancouver’s airport had a more international flavor than many airports in the United States, perhaps because its position as Canada’s gateway to Asia and francophonie influence gave it an aura de mystique. For the first time, I felt like a foreigner and an ignorant one to boot. I had trouble getting through immigration and customs because I didn’t know I had to fill out a customs declaration form when I first entered the country; I was lucky I wasn’t turned back by an overzealous official. Having lived most of my life near the U.S.-Canadian border, I always drove to Canada and had never experienced the rigor of flying to the Great White North. At the time, Canadian immigration officials at land border crossings merely asked you a few questions and waived you through without documentation.

Waiting in the airport terminal at the Lufthansa gate was a memorable experience for a novice traveler like me. Passengers waiting in the lounge spoke in German that I couldn’t understand, even though I had studied the language for more than three years. I wondered whether I was the only nonnative German speaker on the flight. The lounge was a small enclave of Germanity in a sea of English and French. Listening to German whetted my appetite for more, a desire I would fulfill soon enough after touching down in Europe.

I waited to board my first transoceanic flight to the Old World, trying to suppress my anxiety. There I was, stuck in limbo between the United States and my new home in Europe; a very lonely place. I did not know what to expect after I arrived in Frankfurt. It would have been easy for me to succumb to my fear of the unknown: the fear of having no one to meet me at the airport; of having to speak a foreign language to get around (of course, lots of Frankfurters–the people of Frankfurt, not hot dogs–spoke English, so that helped); of being alone in a strange new city; of searching for the main train station; and of getting settled in my new home in Austria. No textbook could have taught me what I needed to know en route to ease my trepidation. I was on my own.

Lufthansa finally put me out of my misery when they called passengers to board the flight. The aircraft gangway, where you submit your ticket and passport (and in later years, your carry-on luggage and body) for inspection, can leave you feeling as if you’re heading to the gallows. Add to that a fear of flying, and boarding a flight can be an ordeal. These thoughts crossed my mind as I handed the attendant my travel documents. She waved me through with a rushed smile, and I walked solemnly to the aircraft.

The flight from Vancouver to Frankfurt was as comfortable as a long-haul flight could have been. I enjoyed the experience of flying on my first twin-aisle 747 with its jumbo-sized cabin. I paced the aisles like a curious kid, testing the lavatories, gliding my hands across the smooth overhead storage bins, and checking out the snazzy controls built into the seat. That I felt like a country bumpkin was an understatement; I might as well have been raised in the wilderness the way this incredible feat of engineering dazzled me.

I met my seatmates, a friendly couple from Hannover, Germany named Rita and Ludwig. We spoke in a mixture of German and English, mostly German, which I enjoyed practicing after speaking English for most of my life. Returning from a two-week trip to “Havaii,” Rita and Ludwig recounted their visit to America and told me about their life in Germany. I have never seen anyone head-bang while listening to classical music, but Ludwig, a fortysomething fan of the opera, somehow managed bring out the purest essence of the music by gracefully bobbing his head. I wondered the airline had backmasked the Bach tracks! Rita and I chatted while Ludwig entertained himself. By the end of the trip, we were both ready to muzzle a three-year-old boy who had whined and screamed nonstop for over eight hours. Much to our chagrin, the angelic brat fell asleep during the final thirty minutes of the flight. I wanted to try out the Bill Cosby’s “Jeffrey” routine and wake the child up as we disembarked, but I was much too kind.

A novice traveler and poor college student unaccustomed to enjoying in-flight amenities, I took full advantage of it. I indulged in the “free” beer, wine, mineral water and in-flight entertainment is if I had never been treated to such luxury. There’s nothing like “free” movies and a pair of “free” headphones to excite a young guy. The all-too-familiar dinner was a choice of beef or chicken, salad, bread and rolls, shrimp, and a drink. I chose the chicken and beer. While the meal was forgettable, I enjoyed the beverages. Although I thought these amenities were “complimentary” at the time, I later realized that I had paid more than $1,000 for these bennies when I bought my ticket. At least the beer was wunderschön.

Click here to read the previous installment of Eurasia.